


baby, i'm amazed by you

by garden of succulents (staranise), icosahedonist (teljhin)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5 Things, Awkward Flirting, Jack is the worst wingman, Language Barrier, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7383076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staranise/pseuds/garden%20of%20succulents, https://archiveofourown.org/users/teljhin/pseuds/icosahedonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He just can’t talk to Kent Parson. That’s what it is. The man is literally so attractive he makes Tater’s inferior frontal gyrus shut down.</em>
</p><p>Five times Tater utterly fails to flirt with Kent Parson the way he wants to, and one time he gets a little help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby, i'm amazed by you

**Author's Note:**

> This fic happened [on Tumblr](http://des-zimbits.tumblr.com/post/146876528016/icosahedonist-icosahedonist-des-zimbits), thanks to the prompt, "Patater that begins because Tater has a lowkey/highkey crush on Kent (which he’s very embarrassed to admit) and aSKS JACK TO INTRODUCE THEM."
> 
> We are still waiting for the Regency AU of that prompt. In case anyone, you know. Wanted.

**one**

Alexei Mashkov has been in America for all of two weeks and the noise of the party around him has melted into English-sounding goop. He’s lost sight of the friends who dragged him here. He doesn’t know who the host of this party is, and the only people he recognizes anymore are ones he knows from TV.

Like, right in front of him, the best NHL player under 25 is sitting four feet away, his bare back still covered in droplets of water from his dip in the pool. Under the water and the tan, that back is scattered with freckles. He’s holding a cold bottle of beer to his neck, soothing the livid hickey there.

Then Kent Parson turns around and fixes those unnerving eyes on Alexei and says something in English, probably a question. Then he frowns and says, “You OK?”

“Yeah,” Alexei says. “OK.” And he swings around and abruptly finds somewhere else to be.

 

**two**

Thursday night of the All-Star Game, a crowded bar, teammates and friends, and he’s suddenly face-to-face with Kent Parson, who says in Russian, “How’s it goin’?”

Tater _gapes_ at him, and what is he supposed to say? Does this man _speak_ Russian? He’s pretty sure Parson doesn’t speak Russian. He’ll embarrass Parson if he replies in the same language and goes past his comprehension. So should he just ignore it, answer in English? What even _is_ the answer in English? How does English–?

“Hey, Parser!” someone says behind him, and Parson looks away, grins at a friend, gets hauled into a hug. As the man drags him away he shoots Tater a little apologetic smile, but then he’s gone.

 

**three**

On the ice when the Aces are pushing as hard as they can for their Playoff spot and Parson is increasingly frustrated every time Tater crosses his path, checking him or intercepting his passes or fouling his chance for a shot. He’s losing his grip on the famous Parson ice, and when the buzzer ends the second period he literally screams at Tater, “Will you get out of my fucking face?!” with an arm gesture so vehement his glove flies off and lands on the ice.

Around them the fans, noisy now that they’ve risen to go line up for beer at the concessions, begin to roar at the signs of an incipient fight.

Heart beating absurdly fast, Tater shakes his head solemnly. He can’t do what Parson wants. He skates a short way and reaches out with his stick, though, and flips the glove back to him. Parson catches it, chest heaving and face blank with the aftermath of rage, and turns and skates away.

 

**four**

Another year, another game, another loss to the Aces but the Falconers are starting to rebuild and they’ve got high hopes that by 2015 they’ll be something to be reckoned with, and at the end of the game Parson straightens up from where he’d been leaning on his knees and heaving for breath after separating from his teammates’ celly. He skates over to Tater and claps him roughly on the arm. “That was incredible, my man,” he says.

Tater knows a lot of English now. He knows _fuckin’ beaut_ and _you’re amazing_ and _what’s your number_ and _we should go out sometime, I really like you._

“Yeah, OK,” is what comes out of his mouth instead, and he mentally pictures punching himself in the fucking face for that. He pats Parson’s shoulder in an attempt to convey what he _really_ meant, but he fears the moment is lost.

 

**five**

He just can’t talk to Kent Parson. That’s what it is. The man is literally so attractive he makes Tater’s inferior frontal gyrus shut down. Because Tater has literally _scripted conversations_ for how to talk to him (“I follow your cat on Instagram, so cute!” and “Are you on Snapchat? I just got an account,” both perfect ways to ask for Parson’s number) and the moment they’re face-to-face, whoosh, out it goes.

“Las Vegas,” he says at the NHL awards. “Nice city.”

Parson pulls a face and Tater feels stupid, because Las Vegas isn’t a nice city, really, and the charm has probably worn off for a man who’s lived there for years. “At least I got to walk here,” Parson says with a wry smile.

“So nice for you to hosting us here.” Oh god, oh god, what did he just _say_? It’s like a car wreck, though: don’t look back, Alexei, just keep driving. “Good to see you again.”

That does get a little smile out of Parson, a real one. “Yeah,” he says, reaches out and kind of lightly hits Tater’s arm, fingers brushing the sleeve of his suit. It’s a friendly gesture.

Tater smiles at him for several very akward seconds, his mind completely blank.

“Parser!” a photographer calls, several miles away, from the side of the red carpet. “Tater! Wanna smile for us?”

So they turn and they smile, and then they go inside. They don’t find each other for the rest of the night.

 

**and one**

“Zimmboni.”

Jack looks up from his stall; Tater looms over him with the expression of a man facing a firing squad. A strange thing coming from Tater, who so often makes it his mission to brighten up the locker room, even after the grimmest of losses. Strange, too, considering he’s in just a towel. But before Jack can ask what’s the matter, Tater goes on.

“Need ask you question before you leave.”

Jack frowns. Okay?

“Okay? I mean, sure, go ahead.”

Tater shakes his head. “Before leave. You wait, I find you.” And with that he turns and stalks off toward the showers.

Okay. Jack shrugs and goes about his post-practice routine without a second thought. He’s hitching up his bag when he remembers to wait, so he goes outside to the hallway where he texts idly with Bitty and the SMH group chat. Not long into a conversation about animal husbandry (just—what? Nursey why) Tater calls to him and practically bullies him into an empty equipment room.

“Tater, what’s going on?” Whatever’s got him so serious must be… well. And what if this affects his game? Jack may not wear a letter but he’s not about to leave a teammate high and dry. He’s ready to captain this problem into the penalty box. Or the net. Whatever it calls for. Jack can work on his hockey metaphors.

“Been thinking about Aces game, Zimmboni.” Here Tater pauses, then reluctantly says, “I need favor.”

He _knew_ it. This, he could handle. “Yeah, of course man. I know the game’s a couple of weeks away but I’ve been watching some tape, and I think their lines—”

Tater holds up a hand, looking pained. “No, is not…” He trails off into what sounds like a muttered Russian curse. He shakes himself and tries again. “You know Kent Parson, yes? You introduce me to him?”

Jack feels his face do something peculiar, like it doesn’t quite know what expression to perform in this situation. Without thinking he replies, “Oh sure, of course. Not a problem.”

Tater’s too-serious face breaks into a wide smile. He claps a hand hard on Jack’s shoulder. “Knew you good guy, Zimmboni.” And at that he leaves Jack there, alone and confused in an equipment room that smells faintly of artificial citrus.

At home Jack mulls over the conversation. It’s not like he _minds_ the prospect of introducing Tater and Kenny. He just can’t fathom _why_ Tater wants him to do this in the first place. It’s not like Tater couldn’t say something on the ice, or maybe try to catch Kenny by the visitor’s locker room. Why does he need _Jack_ for this? But the more he thinks on it the less he can wrap his brain around it, so he puts it aside and forgets it until game day.

It’s a pretty quiet affair, considering it’s hockey. At a media time out Jack skates over to the Aces’ bench, where he gets a few stares and glares that he ignores. He stops in front of Kenny, who just looks at him, saying nothing. Jack tries not to frown; he considers skating away. But he thinks on Tater’s face, his happy, smiling face, and how much it had clearly meant to him that Jack do this. So even if this is incredibly bizarre, Jack’s still not going to fail a teammate.

“Hey.” _Good opener_ , Jack thinks. _You got this._

“Hey,” Kenny says. None of the other Aces say a word. So far so good.

But he must linger too long without responding because Parse gets this familiar look on his face, one that says, “Hurry the fuck up, Zimms, I know you know how to do this.” It’s a little soft and endearing, weirdly enough, knowing that some things haven’t changed between them and that’s all right. It makes Jack relax.

Which is why he then blurts out, “You have to meet my Tater later.”

The Aces crack up. Kenny grins from ear to ear, like he cannot believe he’s witness to this spectacle. Jack is ready for the ice to crack and pull him under. A concussion would be better than this.

“Is this a euphemism, Zimms? You know,” and Kenny leans over the boards, right into Jack’s space, his voice lowered, “if you’re gonna proposition me, maybe don’t do it in the middle of a game, huh? Just sayin’.”

Jack regains himself enough to roll his eyes. “No, I mean—” He sighs, because this is his lot in life. “Just meet me outside the visitor’s locker room after, okay?”

He cannot believe he ever loved that shit-eating grin. “You got it.” And because he’s Kent fucking Parson, he _winks_. Jack skates back to the bench, only to get insistently nudged by Tater.

“You talk to him? What he say? All good?” Tater’s expression is all nervous concern, and in all the time Jack’s known him Tater has never once been nervous. He can’t fathom why, but he only has time to nod and briefly tell him to stay behind after the game before play resumes.

It’s a close loss for the Falconers, so for that reason Jack doesn’t descend into his usual scowl-fest, instead tempering it into a mild sulk. Tater, for once, isn’t doing much better, but they both manage to head to the other locker room without any issues. There Kenny’s leaning against the wall in his game day suit, seeming for all the world like he’s totally psyched to be here and is glad to skip out on celebrating with his teammates. Before they’re spotted, however, Tater grabs Jack’s arm and yanks them back behind the corner.

Okay, this is just plain ridiculous, Jack decides. “Tater, what the hell—”

He’s met with a frantic gaze and a strong grip on his shoulders. “I’m okay, yes? Hair okay? Breath okay? Here.” And then Tater gets right in Jack’s face and _breathes_ on him, open-mouthed, and that. Is. _It_.

Jack rears back while pushing at Tater at the same time. “What is your _problem_?” he hisses. There’s being a good teammate, and then there’s… whatever this is. It’s got to stop. But just as he’s about to lay into Tater and get to the bottom of things, someone clears their throat.

Kenny’s lazy smirk brings them both back to reality. Tater all but jumps away from Jack, smoothing out his suit in a hasty attempt to appear less like a complete _weirdo_. For his part Jack shrugs; he has no explanation so why try? But. He did say he would introduce them, so.

“Hey, I want you to meet Tater. Alexei Mashkov. Tater, you know Kent Parson.”

Tater pastes on a bright, if somewhat forced, smile and sticks out his hand. As he takes it Kenny gives him a long once-over, and his smirk shifts into something more predatory.

A smile that Jack was once all too familiar with. And from the way Tater is suddenly leering back, one that is working very well.

“So,” Kenny all but purrs, because seriously, Kenny? “Tall, dark, and Russian, huh. Let me buy you a drink.” He pivots on his heel and places a hand on the small of Tater’s back, and together they begin walking down the hall. Before they’re out of sight Kent glances back and says, “Thanks for the introduction, Zimms. Don’t wait up for us.” And because of course, _of course_ he would, Tater turns too and gives him a fucking thumbs up. And with that, they’re gone out the double doors.

Left alone, Jack goes home where he pulls out his phone to make his customary post-game call. At the pick-up he says, “Bitty? Yeah it was a tough loss. But listen, I have a story to tell you….”


End file.
